Jack Daddy

Who can forget my recent assertions of admiration regarding my darling love of life — the suave and sexy Jack? He of the brawn and sweat. He of the grunts and the groans and the agitation when his manliness is even marginally challenged. Oooh, I get all tingly just thinking about thinking about it (and him).
Well, as if I needed further proof that Jack is indeed the virile, charming he-man I have regarded him to be since his incredible body first graced my sense of sight and his devilish voice first enchanted my sense of hearing, today he decided to hammer it on home. Today, however, it was not his brute strength with which he chose to win my affection but his tender moment on his cell phone with his son.
Yes, his son. The same nine-year-old son that he forces to work out with all manner of manly apparatus. The same son who I hope, in the summer of 2012, struts his sassy stuff across a flower-strewn float heading south on Fifth Avenue, flaunting his well-muscled and oiled body in nothing but a gloriously flamboyant feather boa, snug cut-off denim shorts, and black workboots.
It was clear that Jack wanted me to overhear his little exchange with the boy. Rather than take his call off the gym floor, the way the signs on the walls encourage, he stood by the windows and gabbed for a while, and then, at the very end of his call, he paused about three feet from where I was seated on a weight bench in the middle of a “set” (uggh, how I hate workout terminology) and glanced at me in the mirror to see if I was almost done. He watched me do two “reps”, realized that I was not going to stop, raised his eyebrows in greeting, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then reconsidered when he saw that I was not about to pay active attention to him.
Rather than continue off the gym floor to complete the call, he decided to stick around and talk loudly enough into his phone so that I could hear his conversation over the music.
“OK, babe,” he said entirely too tenderly and sweetly (even if too loudly to be truly tender and sweet). “You go in and wake up Mommy, then, OK? Just go in and wake up Mommy.”
I continued with my set. (He should have known it would take me a while, though. I mean, hey, isn’t he the one who dubbed me “Super Slow Girl”?) I saw in the mirror that he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. I have great peripheral vision and a fantastic ability to appear disconnected even when my attention is engaged.
“Well, OK, honey,” he continued. “Be a good boy, and I will see you soon, OK? I’ll be home soon. Tell Mommy when she wakes up.” He paused to let the good boy say something, and then said, “I love you!” and did a little kiss-kiss into the phone.
He looked over at me again, just as I was silently counting “12”, and turned slightly toward me with a “Gee, am I not the most adorable dad this side of Bob Saget?” lopsided smile that I wanted to scrub off his face with a coarse washcloth. And finally walked away.
“Fucking jackass,” I muttered, ventriloquist-style, as I turned away to stretch, just in case he turned around and saw that I was “free”.
I only hope that he went directly into the restroom and scoured his tongue and teeth to remove all that sticky-sweet treacle. He certainly doesn’t need any more holes in his head.
As for me, well, I’m still tasting vomit, even after a dozen brushings.